Utterpants
Staff writer, Barry Subchimp, discovers that getting his nashers round
a fried slice and a hot cuppa down his neck isn't as easy as he thought

It was nine-twenty in the morning and I'd
just helped shift a typically fun-packed first edition, when I sauntered
down to the canteen for breakfast. Within seconds of entering the room,
the way, along with the sunlight, was blocked by some lumpy heifer waddling
around the hot water machine. Unsure of where it was going, the beast
trundled aimlessly back and forth, alternately blocking several vital
facilities, for which long queues were rapidly forming.

Having been
separated from its herd, this grazing munter proceeded to cut off my
access to the cups, the tea bags, and to add
insult to injury, the hot water machine. It wobbled back and forth
between these essential resources like a drugged rhino; apparently fighting
unconsciousness with a series of lethargic shufflings and erratic stompings;
dancing to some dissonant tribal drum only heard within it's thick,
primitive skull. With a surfeit of adrenaline still pumping through
my veins from the deadline rush, I struggled to maintain my patience,
acutely aware that my fuse could be lit at any time. Suddenly the heifer
became aware of the angry and ever-growing tailback of editorial entrants
to the canteen caused by its lumbering incompetence and let out an apologetic
bellow—so quiet it was barely audible.

Then it came. My attention had been so absorbed by this half-human
ball of melted wax blocking my every attempt to reach the elusive tea
making facilities, that I had failed to notice what was going on in
the rest of the canteen. An ungodly cry assailed my ears; a haunting,
slow-pitched wail from the depths of hell, like Chewbacca's first yawn
of the day. With my hair standing on end, I realised with mounting horror
that this monosyllabic moan had come from a new source in an attempt
to communicate with the heaving, snorting hulk before me—my god,
these things were multiplying!

It was the entrance of the Sales department—or at least those
members of it who were capable of finding the canteen without a map.
I should have known! The species was well known to me. Who else would
take a break only twenty minutes into their working day? Editorial had
been slaving over their hot keyboards for more than two hours; maintaining
their tenuous grip on life with bottled water and threats from the management.

Propelled by the fear that if I delayed a moment longer I would expire
on the spot, I made a lightning sortie into the besieged caffeine facilities,
almost unbalancing the Lump and knocking it right off it's trotters
as I swooped in for the kill; cup, bag, water, bang, finished! Taking
just four seconds at the liquids section I dived past two back markers
in a manoeuvre that Michael Schumacher would envy and accelerated towards
the solids, leaving a trail of lumbering bloaters in my wake. Pausing
only to snatch a squared-sausage and hashbrown roll, I cruised to a
shoe
leather screeching halt at the till and coughed up for the nosh.
A swift, handbrake turn later and I was headed towards the sugar and
cutlery—easy.
But no!

Oh hell, they've joined forces!
Having skipped the solid food section for probably the first time in
their lives, they'd got through the till ahead of me and were now circling
the cutlery section like a herd of headless wildebeest at a water trough.
It soon became clear that the realisation that teamwork would allow
them to hold up far more people, for much longer, had now percolated
into their skulls. The Lump, Chewbacca, and a new addition to the herd,
Baron Greenback, were now waddling in random directions about the cutlery
table, prompting a fresh bottleneck of infuriated feeders to make vain
attempts to break through the cordon in the hope of finding the exit.
The scene that confronted me was the stuff of nightmares. I watched
in frozen horror as the three zoo escapees continually blocked every
attempt to reach the sugar—not on purpose, you understand—it
would take several millennia before these creatures acquired sufficient
intelligence to even entertain so sophisticated a concept—but
through sheer, fucking abominable, graceless stupidity. Fortunately,
the ox-like moos, guttural grants and occasional high-pitched nicker
which passed for communication among the herd lasted no more than five
minutes before they vacated the area and stumbled back to their pen
to be milked.

If there's one thing I can't fucking stand it's people who have absolutely
no awareness of their immediate surroundings, or just don't fucking
care. Coffin-dodgers are the worst offenders, even the ones who are
still savvy enough to control their bladders. Sure, some of them have
trouble convulsing their way between Fish Teas and Pringles, so I can
tolerate them as it's not really their fault. But for fucks sake, will
the rest of you please keep a fucking eye open on the world around you?

With such a wide range of outstanding material,
it is almost impossible to single out anything that, er—stands
out, but our adult version of Snow
White and the Seven Dwarves, as well as Jennifer Gardner's many
stories, are all firm favourites with our readers.